The Covenant

When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
I all alone beweep my outcast state
Bare ruined choirs where once the sweet birds sang,

Roses have thorns and silver fountains mud,
Like all the waves make towards the pebbled shore
where the yellowing leaves,or few,or none do hang
Not Mine own fears nor the Prophetic Soul

Of the wide World dreaming of
Things to Come...